


The Laughter of Loki

by MemoryCrow



Series: The Laughter of Loki [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Goofiness, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Rather surprised Rumpel, Unrequited Love, frustrated Rumpel, hook fondling, lusty killian jones, magic gone mad, more naughty than explicit, oh why not?, overly requited adoration, very surprised Belle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 00:32:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: The title may be a bit misleading: it's the name of a spell. Rumpelstiltskin performs a love spell meant for Belle, but the magic finds a more pliable target.





	The Laughter of Loki

The spell was called The _Laughter of Loki_ , making it untrustworthy from the start. In fact, it was supposed to be a love spell.

Well, it worked. Loki was most assuredly laughing his arse off. The spell had been Rumpelstiltskin’s last ditch effort, a last gasp, at reeling in Belle. Not that he imagined she’d succumb to something so elementary as a spell, but he’d hoped it would at least soften her. Alter her view somewhat, so that should his evil soul leak just the tiniest bit at the seams, she might find it… cute.

How signals had gotten crossed, he did not know. He kept replaying the scenario, the ingredients. Slipping the feather of the mourning dove into Belle’s pocket… the itch of magic at his fingertips as he made the most subtle of gestures… he could have been scratching his nose.

She’d been there, in his shop, as well as a handful of other people. The Savior and her family, always a delight. And the Savior’s puppy, well-heeled and eyeballing her pocket for snacks; the pirate.

Every gesture, every magical intent, every secretive and serpentine spurt of magic had been directed towards Belle, and yet it was the pirate who absorbed the magic.

Thank you, Loki. Rumpelstiltskin sighed.

He was a tricky one, himself. He should have known better than to play with trickster magic. So, it was true; Belle would not succumb to the simplicity of a spell. But Killian Jones? Evidently, when the magic found Belle wrapped in a hard casing, fewer cracks in its surface than the nuns, it sought an easier path…. More fertile and receptive ground for its seed. Of all targets… Rumpelstiltskin sighed again.

At first, he hadn’t realized it. Testing the waters, he’d said something rather off-color, some sarcastic, little, smirking nastiness, looking to gauge Belle’s reaction. It was a non-reaction, her eyes going flat. She, Mary Margaret and the Savior all had exactly the same non-reaction, letting their eyes glaze over him, as if he’d belched loudly in a five-star restaurant. Perhaps this was the sort of thing women practiced, together, when they moved in flocks to the ladies room.

David Nolan had given the stink-eye, looking directly at him. Rumpelstiltskin was menaced with bulky shoulders and a narrowed gaze. But Killian… had loosed a startled bark of laughter. He looked immediately apologetic, hang-dogging for the Savior, puppy eyes and pout. But a ghost of a smile lingered on his lips. He glanced at Rumpelstiltskin.

Rumpelstiltskin had found it a little peculiar, but – in the moment – it had largely washed over him. He’d been occupied with disappointment over Belle, and was casting his mind back. Did he dream all of it, her acceptance of him in the Dark Castle? Regina, in bitch-mode, had suggested that Belle suffered from something like Stockholm Syndrome. Perhaps that’s what had happened.

Unhappy in contemplation, he’d ignored the pirate by habit. He’d given the barest notice when the group left his establishment, and Killian – the last out the door – glanced back. He’d smiled, Rumpelstiltskin remembered. Of course, he hadn’t smiled back… but a small note of doubt, an unformed question had popped into his head. Then the group was gone, and he dismissed it… for it was absurd.

Well, absurd or no, Killian had been felt-up and approved by Loki, and now he kept showing up. His eyes were too wide and he all but bounced on the balls of his feet, hovering near wherever Rumpelstiltskin stood.

It was getting a little embarrassing.

“Pirate, whatever do you want?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, hands out, exasperated. He needed to reverse the spell, but was minus a feather. In truth, he hadn’t put any effort into feather-retrieval, for observing the pirate was proving to be so… unusual. He remained on stand-by.

Killian smiled, blushed and ducked his head. Oh, gods. Nose wrinkling, Rumpelstiltskin added, “Don’t _fondle_ your hook at me, lad.”

Killian hadn’t realized he was doing so. Rumpelstiltskin watched him become aware, and the hook lowered. Instead, his hand rose to his face, his mouth.

Rumpelstiltskin had never before realized how utterly devoted this person was to oral fixation… and to _touching_ himself. Killian Jones, with his aura of rolling in the dirt, was a germaphobe’s nightmare. His fingertips often touched upon his lips, caressing there. Or they stroked… _stroked_ through dark stubble at his cheek and jaw; made a sensual, slow scratching at stubble on his neck. His fingers, glittering with a magpie-gaudiness of jewels, toyed with his necklace of charms, amulets. They pet through an alarming display of chest hair, the pirate’s shirts becoming unbuttoned ever lower with the passing of days. He presented himself to Rumpelstiltskin, eyes torn between bashful hope and an aggressive smolder.

Did Emma not touch this child, Rumpelstiltskin wondered? Surely her touch would go a ways towards nullifying the spell.

Stepping closer to Rumpelstiltskin, something that might be interpreted as a threat, should one fail to notice the infatuation, the light playing about Killian’s face, he asked, “Would you _kiss_ me… Rumpel?” His name on Kilian’s lips was an uncertain thing.

Yes, laugh, Loki. _Laugh_. You jackass.

Rumpelstiltskin stared at the crow-boy, the wolf-boy. Surprisingly, he considered. Killian put off a scent he hadn’t previously noticed, not unlike the elusive, honey scent of his own magic. But it was hotter… more resolutely sweet. Baking cookies. Rising cake batter in a hot oven. Sugar and fire, and a sly stirring of musk, playing with a headiness of vanilla. It was intimate and sexual, and Killian smelled edible.

“You don’t really want that.” Rumpelstiltskin dismissed. “You don’t know what you want, right now.”

Unappeased, Killian moved even closer. His body, the warmth of him brushed to Rumpelstiltskin’s flank, and he felt a little overwhelmed. Killian reached for his hand, and he allowed it to be captured. He watched, eyes growing wide in fascinated disbelief, as Killian pressed a soft kiss to the palm of his hand.

It was a tricky, squirmy thing. The soft touch of lips and a prickle of stubble. Killian’s eyes were closed, his hand folded over Rumpelstiltskin’s, keeping long fingers pressed to his face, scented with magic and tobacco. He sighed, hot breath to Rumpelstiltskin’s sensitive palm, and shivers raced down Rumpelstiltskin’s back.

Killian’s eyes opened. He took Rumpelstiltskin’s first two fingers into his mouth and sucked, deeply. He kept his eyes, dark with lust, on Rumpelstiltskin’s as his head made a slow bob. He moaned quietly, cheeks hollowing and brow intense, and Rumpelstiltskin felt himself go hard. The feeling of it… soft, wet tongue to the hungry texture of his fingerprints, and… _gods_ … the implication. He’d gone _so_ hard, the blood that hijacked his body hot and indecent; it set up a steady throb at his pelvic floor that was chaotic and intrusive. He was unable to think of anything but Killian’s mouth, ruddy lips around his cock, eager to please.

With a gasp, he pulled his hand away, leaving Killian bereft. The puppy _whined_. How could Emma stand it, Rumpelstiltskin wondered? The pirate was compelling, wanton in body and spirit. How did she not give into the lad’s every need, when – clearly – he needed a great deal.

It was a little frightening… within the setting of Storybrooke, Rumpelstiltskin had not felt such a physical, visceral response to Belle… though he remembered it well from the castle. It had been so long since he’d known any form of touch; even casual touch. He was the Dark One, after all. People stood back and wrinkled their noses, as if having to adjust to an odd smell. They signed contracts when pressed, but they did not shake hands. The delirious, unexpected and almost hurtful little flurry, wherein Belle rushed at him with hugs and smiles, seemed as if it was over before it had quite begun.

The weakness he recognized was appalling. The thirst of skin, the hunger that hollowed him out and filled him with ache. It was human weakness, and he didn’t want to sully his hands with it.

“You’re under a spell.” He said to Killian, voice gruff as he tried to manage his own upsurge of desire. “A love spell, to be exact. It was meant for Belle, but… it went awry.”

Yes. One could say that.

Killian made a face of pure disbelief. “The _deuce_ you say.”

“It’s true.”

There was a pause; Killian frowned and considered. His right hand made a thoughtful survey of his face, his chest, his hook… Rumpelstiltskin thought he might go a little mad, witnessing the public onslaught of self-love, self-comfort. Had the pirate _always_ behaved this way?

Abruptly, Killian was again in his space. He took it all up, crowding Rumpelstiltskin and warming him to his core. Unerringly, his hand went to Rumpelstiltskin’s cock… well, there could be no disguising the interest happening _there_. Killian’s hand grasped through a fine weave of well-tailored cloth, a squeeze and a fondle, and Rumpelstiltskin’s knees went weak. He needed to sit down; he needed a moment. Both of his hands came to white knuckle the countertop of the cabinet he leaned against.

“I don’t know if I believe it.” Killian purred, voice soft. “I may not care if it’s true. Anyway, Croc… Are _you_ under a spell?” He gave another squeeze, full of meaning. Rumpelstiltskin felt himself flush, lips parting as he watched Killian’s face. Killian took the moment, the allowance of need, to lean in and press his lips to Rumpelstiltskin’s.

In that moment, Rumpelstiltskin heard the little bell over his door chirp out its merry tinkle. His blood froze, mortified, and it became a painful, freezing-burn when Belle’s voice, shocked, blurted, “ _Rumpel_!”

He couldn’t turn around. He hoped it wasn’t completely obvious, from Belle’s vantage, that Killian’s hand still held him in an intimacy he’d all but forgotten. But she couldn’t have missed the kiss. She couldn’t miss Killian’s close stance, or that it took him a few beats too long to back away a step.

It was another bubble of laughter for the trickster god, who – after all – had become a mare in order to fuck a stallion…. And then became a _mother_. Why, why had he toyed with such capricious magic? Bigger risk, bigger payoff, perhaps. Or a gigantic showing of one’s ill-tempered buttocks.

As he and Regina had discussed, magic – here – was different from home. And the gods of this place, dead or no, were not the gods of his homeland.

The trickster laughed, but on whom was the joke? Surely himself, who stood; befuddled, embarrassed, horrified; trousers yet tented and the back of his neck a-prickle with Belle’s presence. Or… perhaps Belle, whom he couldn’t look upon. In part, for shame… but, also, he might burst into a fit of laughter. If he turned to see her rounded, shocked eyes and a face that conveyed betrayal or judgement…. Perhaps distaste over the person he allowed to touch him… well, it might begin to seem funny. He might let loose with impish laughter, rude and in-her-face.

Or the joke might be on Killian, who still stood so close and all but _glared_ at Belle. Which was also sort of funny, and as Rumpelstiltskin stared at him, his disbelief grew larger by the second. Killian’s expression, his stance was possessive. Surely the very notion would rouse him to spluttering anger, were he not ensorcelled. He looked at Belle with eyes that said, _You had your go at him, sweetheart. He’s mine, now._

With a roll of his eyes, Rumpelstiltskin forced himself to turn around, grateful for the cabinet which concealed his lower parts. Which, incidentally, were still perky and alert, as if the spell had a medicinal clause for magical Viagra. Perhaps Loki was in league with Priapus. Killian again moved closed, spell-driven and blood-mad; his new bodyguard and right-hand man; his new suitor and consort. Belle’s face was, indeed, a cause for inappropriate laughter. Mirth in the church pew, snorts of helpless hilarity at a funeral. A small snicker slipped out, and Rumpelstiltskin gasped it back in as he felt Killian’s hand toying with his hair, fingers at the back of his neck.

It was a fucking disaster. It was catastrophic shite and there might be a body count. All he needed was for his long-lost son to choose this moment to reappear, or perhaps for the ghost of Milah to arrive and become horror-struck by both himself and Killian.

Clearing his throat, ignoring the tease of Killian’s fingers, the warmth of his presence, so close behind, Rumpelstiltskin decided to pretend that _none_ of it was happening. It seemed the only viable course. He smiled at Belle in a pleasant way.

“Can I help you, dearie?”

Her face, owlish and utterly confused, two, stern lines marring her pretty brow, was very nearly too much. He almost laughed, again, and was caught up short as Killian’s hand drifted lower. It molded itself to an arse-cheek and squeezed, as if checking for ripeness. It took everything Rumpelstiltskin had to not squeak like a squeezy-toy. He clenched his glutes, as if trying to hold a quarter between his cheeks, and his face colored. His cock throbbed; not his brightest feature.

“Um…” Belle said.

With impatience that wasn’t at all feigned, Rumpelstiltskin waved his hand at her. _Get on with it_ , the hand said. “Yes, dearie?” He took pains not to back his hips up to Killian…. Who seemed ever more warm, ever more amorous.

“Rumpel… What are you _doing_?”

Well, who the fuck knew? How was he supposed to answer her? He drummed his fingers on the countertop, stalling, and then… surely _this_ was the punchline… Killian said, “He’s moving _on_ , love. Why don’t you run along as well.”

Rumpelstiltskin looked to heaven. No, that wouldn’t do. There was no way the trickster god was up _there_ , plucking harp strings and contemplating oneness. He cast his eyes, baleful and demoralized, downward. _Fucking hell_ , he thought at Loki.

Then the dam broke and the laughter flooded out and over. Rumpelstiltskin wasn’t certain he’d _ever_ laughed so hard. He was very nearly weeping. He doubled over, head to folded arms on the countertop, and shook with laughter. The sound of it was belly-deep and alarmingly evil, even to himself… and considering his compromised position.

The doubling over pressed his bum neatly to Killian’s crotch, where a firm, hot ridge now nestled to the welcoming cushion of his arse-cheeks. That was funny, too. To say nothing of considerate.

“Alright, mate?” Killian asked. His hand stroked Rumpelstiltskin’s back, up under his jacket. Which, in fact, was blissful. The pirate sought to _comfort_ , even as he sought sex, and more laughter peeled out. Like leaping into the curse of the Dark One, when Rumpelstiltskin had a melt-down, he did it big. He rolled his forehead, bony and bumpy on the wooden counter. No. He wasn’t alright. Any idiot who wasn’t currently besotted by magical fuckery could see that.

Highly perturbed and in a frustration of all left unspoken and not understood, Belle stomped one daintily booted foot. “ _Rumpel!”_ She demanded, and it made a few suspiciously high-pitched, impish giggles slip out.

“ _Look_ what you’ve done to him.” Killian said, hand still warm on Rumpelstiltskin’s back. “I think you’ve done enough here, love.”

Rumpelstiltskin banged his head, a soft thumping, a few times on the countertop. Maybe _this_ was the _Laughter of Loki_. Maybe the absurdity fed the god, and the god possessed the spell-caster. And then all hell broke loose, as befits the father of Hel. As love spells went, it had an undeniable entertainment value.

With a huff, Belle turned on her heel and left, the bell over the door giving a happy little _ta-ta! Cheers, dearie!_

“ _Finally_.” Killian murmured, and pressed more firmly to Rumpelstiltskin’s bum, hand going to Rumpelstiltskin’s hip. Coughing into his fist, Rumpelstiltskin righted himself and turned around.

“Just a moment there, Casanova.”

“I can’t wait.” Killian hissed over bared, white teeth, as pretty as they were predatory, urgent and ridiculously horny. Rumpelstiltskin almost laughed again, but managed to keep it toned down to a sardonic smile.

“It’s a _spell_ , you negligible wank. Pull yourself together.”

Aggressive, Killian closed what little space there was between them. Unfailing in its target precision, his hand came again to grasp Rumpelstiltskin’s cock. Still up and about, wondering about the landscape outside of its dark tent. Killian said, “I ask you again, mate. Are _you_ under a spell?”

Was he? Was _that_ the punchline?

Fuck it. He was never messing with the gods of these foreign stars and this foreign soil again. He closed his hand over Killian’s, making a firm stroke which Killian picked up as his own rhythm. Killian’s mouth came again to his own, and the laughter in his belly died away.

Mirth melted into desire, the only sounds were breath, soft moans.

Perhaps the magic, the god was satisfied.

 

 THE END


End file.
